She says it better than I can...

I wish I could write poetry because I love it. But, in the absence of such a skill, I am thankful for others who can express so beautifully the things I have trouble putting words to.

I write my last final tomorrow which means that I am quite close to being done grad school. Which means that change is coming, which means that I have decisions to make, which means that there is another adventure in the wind. I'm certain of it.

And I am certain that there is goodness in store that will come wearing a thousand different faces. And so I love this poem, because I can see the light spilling too, and I plan to be there soon.

Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds

I Will Visit in the Next Days and Weeks

What is so utterly invisible

as tomorrow?

Not love,

not the wind,

not the inside of a stone.

Not anything.

And yet, how often I am fooled-

I'm wading along

in the sunlight-

and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining

days ahead-

I can see the light spilling

like a shower of meteors

into next week's trees,

and I plan to be there soon-

and, so far, I am

just that lucky,

my legs splashing

over the edge of darkness,

my heart on fire.

I don't know where

such certainty comes from-

the brave flesh

or the theater of the mind-

but if I had to guess

I would say that only

what the soul is supposed to be

could send us forth

with such cheer

as even the leaf must wear

as it unfurls

its fragrant body, and shines

against the hard possibility of stoppage

which, day after day,

before such brisk, corpuscular belief,

shudders, and gives way.

-Mary Oliver-